


The Neverland Youth Transition Home

by Ripplestitchskein



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Foster Care, Group Homes, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Teen Romance, Teen Years, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5744176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ripplestitchskein/pseuds/Ripplestitchskein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faced with the prospect of being shuffled off to yet another foster home or setting out on her own, Emma accepts the final spot at The Neverland Youth Transition Home run by Liam and Elsa Jones, and all the people and experiences that go along with that decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Neverland Youth Transition Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lenfaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenfaz/gifts).



> This is for darling Lena (Lenfaz) whose love for Liam makes me smile and who actually originally inspired this months and months ago and then inspired its revival. 
> 
> And thanks to Sarah, (Tnlph) for the read through, you make it so much better and I’m am so grateful.

_____

 

He hands her a pamphlet and a business card before he even opens his mouth, eyes pale blue and soft under brown curls, smile easy and full. Non-threatening. He keeps his distance, handing the items over using the full length of his arm, well within view of her social worker across the lobby. A man with a job like his knows there is a procedure to approaching vulnerable, troubled, teenage girls, a set of unspoken rules and proprieties one must follow to avoid giving the wrong impression. It’s certainly not the first offer of shelter Emma’s had from an older man, but it is the first offer of shelter without certain strings attached.

 

She looks at the pamphlet, scoffing at the name ( _Neverland_ , please, how cliché), at the hopeful tone and the bulleted list of provided services on the inside flap. It’s the same bullshit every other place offers with the exact same buzzwords and key phrases: _Life Skills Training, Building Community Relationships, Fostering Educational Growth_ and other abstract concepts that usually equate to nothing more than a group outing to a retirement community once a year to fulfill some state requirement or another, and a bored counselor looking over a piece of paper that says she made it to school for at least one period of the day. Fostering Educational Growth indeed.

 

But this, she looks at the business card _, Liam Jones_ doesn’t speak in buzzwords. He doesn’t make her the same promises a dozen other do-gooder, out of touch, “Intake Coordinators” and “Youth Liaisons” have in the past. He doesn’t speak to her in soft, persuasive tones, trying to convince her that this is the best move for her, or that it’ll be the nurturing environment she needs, doesn’t try to sell her on the idea that all those other places were wrong, that this one, this one will be the right fit, this one will the last stop. In fact, he doesn’t try to sell her on the place at all, rather it seems like he is interviewing _her_ , determining if _she_ is good enough and not the other way around.

 

“Do you have any issues with drugs or alcohol?” He perches on the edge of the well-worn blue couch, studying her face intently, probably to see if she’s lying. It’s a tactic she is very familiar with. He has an accent, English, she suspects, and that’s even stranger and more surprising than his questions.

 

“Not at all, go crazy if you want,” she nods to her social worker who glances at the pair every few seconds, but mostly she sticks to scrolling through her phone. “She might not be cool though.” Emma raises an eyebrow at him, resisting the urge to cross her arms across her chest defiantly.

 

His mouth tilts up in the corners briefly but he doesn’t really smile, just nods like she isn’t being a sassy little brat and continues, flipping through the manila folder that no doubt has every detail of her sordid past. Another set of bullet points by which to pass a judgement: _Truancy, Shoplifting, Possession of Paraphernalia, Driving Without a License,_ each a silent strike against her, another reason to write her off, another reason to send her away.

 

Emma can’t help holding her breath as he flips through, some sheets pink and yellow carbon copies of police reports or court orders, his eyebrows are drawn together as he reads but otherwise his expression is impossible to decipher.

 

“No violent crimes, thankfully,” he says after a beat. “And no history of self-harm.” He looks up at her “Any suicidal thoughts? Periods of depression or anxiety? ”

 

Emma wants to say something smart or funny but she can’t think of anything so she just looks down at her shoes, shaking her head.

 

“Not exactly what I would call a stable year for you,” he murmurs as he reads. “How is your school attendance?”  He flips further through the sheaf, probably looking for school records if she had to guess.

 

Emma shrugs, still looking at her shoes.

 

“I go most of the time,” she says finally. He seems to find the set of documents he needs, his eyes sweeping the sheet.

 

“Not bad, could be better, but not bad,” he makes another humming noise in his throat. “Your grades are good. Very good actually.” He darts his eyes up at her, flashing her a quick smile before returning to her file. Emma knows it’s stupid but something in her chest swells with pride at the compliment, feeling like she’s passed some sort of test she didn’t even know she was taking. She refuses to smile though, sinking lower into her seat.

 

“Okay,” he snaps the file shut, tucking it into his clipboard under more copies of the pamphlet and some other paperwork. “We have a place for you if you want it. You seem like you’ll fit in well enough, I don’t see any red flags and from what Katheryn told me about you on the phone our setup might be a bit more effective for you than waiting around for another family placement.” He looks directly at her for once, his mouth a thin line of determination.

 

“The decision is ultimately yours though Emma. I don’t take on crew that don’t want to be taken on.”

 

Liam Jones, LCSW, Program Director of The Neverland Youth Transition Home holds out his hand to help her up, a question in his eyes and a decision to be made.

 

Emma hesitates but reaches up to take it.

 

_____

 

There is paperwork to fill out and arrangements to be made and it’s hours later when Katheryn promises she’ll see her next week for a drop-in visit, presses her card (Emma has dozens of her cards by now, but every time they see each other she gets one more) into the palm of her hand and then she is gone, a cloud of sickly sweet perfume and the sharp click of her heels following her on the way out.

 

Emma shuffles awkwardly, a large duffle bag at her feet, her more important treasures in the backpack on her shoulders. Liam slings the duffle up over his back and holds open the door as he leads her to the parking garage. He doesn’t ask her about the backpack, doesn’t move to take it from her. He probably knows better by this point.

 

“You’ll have a week to settle in but after that you’ll be added to the work and cooking roster. Everyone rotates nights and responsibilities but we keep it fair, never two weeks with the same job that kind of thing,” he is saying as he loads her into a blue and yellow pickup truck that has seen much better days. The bed is littered with soda cans and rusted tools but he puts her duffel behind the seat with perhaps more care than it needs and she finds the respectful gesture incredibly reassuring.

 

“Curfew is 10 p.m.. sharp, unless you have a work or school waiver,” he says everything so matter of factly, all business, going over the rules and regulations with a finality that brokers no argument or ambiguity. She has a feeling that Liam Jones, for all the tender care he shows her things, and the gentle tones of voice he uses, is not a man to cross or defy and Emma wonders if she’s thought this through completely. She is prone to crossing and defiance.

 

It doesn’t matter, she decides. She will be gone in a week tops, either he breaks or she does, but still she listens.

 

She learns that he is a live-in director, which is not unusual, a lot of the places she’s been have live-in staff, but it does strike her as different that he co-runs the place with his wife. Elsa is also a counselor at the facility. It strikes her as odder still that his own brother is a resident.

 

“So, as you can imagine Ms. Swan, I have a vested interest in the safety and success of our program at Neverland,” he doesn’t look at her as he drives, his eyes firmly on the road, but she can tell he’s observing her reactions in his periphery, and she can sense the statement is both a reassurance and a warning.

 

____

 

It’s dark when they arrive to a large Victorian style house, pale blue with red shutters and a white wraparound porch, close enough to downtown to catch the city bus but far enough out that there is still a sizeable yard and space between neighbors. It’s bigger than she imagined it would be, and she catches a brief glimpse of a dark shadow backlit in one of the upstairs windows while she waits for Liam to retrieve her duffel. She shifts her feet anxiously, kicking at gravel.

 

Liam had explained that she brought them to capacity, 4 boys and 4 girls, the maximum they could legally accommodate in the given space with their number of staff, and it seemed, based on his description, that placement at Neverland was normally pretty hard to come by. That was nine people she had to meet, nine new people she’d be forced to live with and interact with, nine new people to swap chores and meals with. You’d think after a lifetime of these types of introductions she’d be used to it by now, but she never is. It ’s always nerve-wracking, always frightening, always eventually disappointing.

 

When he opens the front door, holding it open with his arm and motioning her inside, Emma’s first impression is that the place is _loud_. Noise seems to come from every direction. The clatter of pots and dishes from an area that must be the kitchen, video game noises from down a hallway, laughter from up the stairs, a shriek of indignation and the pounding of feet on wood.

 

Liam is smiling as he sets her bag on the rug of the entrance way, a hand resting reassuringly on her shoulder.

 

“Trust me,” he says. “I _know_.”

 

_____

 

Her first impression of Killian Jones is that he has incredibly blue eyes, white, white teeth, shaggy, too long hair and that he is extremely annoying. He _bows_ for one, a stiff, ridiculous thing, completely without irony, at the foot of the stairs and scoops her bag over his shoulder like a bellhop before she can even say a word. Liam lets him, barking an order about giving her a tour with a reassuring pat on Emma’s shoulder and then Liam is gone, off to investigate a crashing sound in the kitchen, throwing her into the deep end to see if she can swim she supposes.

 

“To your room first I think, love,” he takes the stairs at a long limbed run, waiting on the landing for her to catch up (she refuses to chase after him and make a fool of herself). He gives her an interested sweep with his eyes as she climbs the steps, head held high and defiant after him. His voice is accented too, slightly more muted than his brother’s, but she finds that annoying as well. 

 

“Not your love,” she says firmly, hearing the cliché on her tongue when she reaches the landing. He just grins, turning on his heel and expecting her to follow. That is also annoying, she decides. She briefly considers ditching him and exploring on her own, something about how he just expects her to tromp after him grating on her nerves. 

 

“Ladies to the right,” he says. “Your room is at the end of the hall. Tink’s a good roommate, quiet lass, keeps to herself mostly, but she’s not the most organized of individuals I’m afraid.” He punctuates this assessment of her new roommate by sweeping the door open.

 

The room is simple, distinctly separated into two clear cut sides, one fairly minimal with a small desk and neatly made bed, the headboard doubling as a bookshelf and place for personal belongings, if one were so inclined. Emma is not.

 

Tink (Emma is unsure if it’s a given or a nickname), apparently _is_ so inclined, her matching headboard and desk filled with all manner of odd things: gears and bits and bobbles, wires and motors, that Emma can’t make heads or tails of what they could possibly be for.

 

Seeing the question on her face Killian smiles, all those white teeth again, carefully setting her bag on a bed (hers apparently) and turning to assess the absent girl’s part of the room.

 

“Tink’s a bit of an inventor of sorts, and “invention does not consist of creating out of void but out of chaos” as Shelley would say. Tink has taken that to heart a bit,” Emma raises an eyebrow at him and he flushes rubbing the back of his head sheepishly and looking away.  “She’s part of some maker’s club at school, all 3D printers and robotics, she’s there now actually so you’ll meet her later.”

 

Emma has no idea what a “maker’s club” is but the girl, Tink appears to keep her hobbies to her side of the space, and she sees nothing particularly offensive or off putting in the art and posters on the wall. She’s had worse: girls who sing loudly and off key to corny pop music and talk nonstop of their obsessions with screechy boy bands Emma can’t tolerate. Girls way into sports who sneer at her lack of athleticism, her lack of team camaraderie, who call her “girly girl” because she wears lip gloss and mascara. Girls who read dark, moody, poetry and prattle on about social justice issues all hours of the day asking intrusive questions about her body, about her sexuality, always ready with a comment on her “internalized misogyny” and how Emma isn’t doing enough to fight the patriarchy. Emma has seen all sorts, but luckily this brief glimpse into Tink’s life doesn’t send up any red flags.

 

“And now to continue our tour,” Killian bows again. “Right this way milady.” He offers her his arm but Emma ignores it, brushing past him into the hallway.

 

He doesn’t seem phased at all, gesturing at the other rooms.

 

“You’ll meet everyone soon enough, they kind of trickle in and out but there will be introductions as you see them, we’re a friendly lot,” he has turned to her at the top of the stairs, looking down at her with those blue eyes. She looks away.

 

“Though from what I’m seeing on your face I doubt you are particularly interested in meeting _anyone_. Planning on doing a runner are we, sweetheart?” His tone is bored, and Emma looks up at him sharply but he just smiles wider. “I’ve seen that look before. I’ve _had_ that look before.” He shrugs. “Give it two weeks I say. See how it suits, you can’t possibly know anything on the basis of ten minutes.” Emma’s mouth opens to argue, but she can only gape at him as he winks and turns back to the stairs.

 

“Now let me show you the best bit, my personal favorite, _the kitchen_.”

 

_____

 

Killian is right that people trickle in and out almost constantly. There is a continuous flow of movement in the house. A large bulletin board in the main hallway acts as a scheduler of sorts, a list of everyone’s locations and activities in a neat series of rows and columns, each name printed on rectangular magnets that are moved around the board as necessary. It reminds her of the clock Molly Weasley owned in her Harry Potter books and she’s not sure how she feels about that.

 

Her name is already there she finds when they pass it, a neatly printed Emma slid effortlessly into the column labeled “Home”.  She wonders if Liam texted them, picturing someone at a label maker carefully lining up the sides in anticipation of their new arrival.

 

It makes her uncomfortable.

 

Liam’s wife, Elsa, she of the label maker, is a bit more relaxed than he is, but she possesses that same no nonsense aura and slightly cold demeanor that tells Emma she won’t put up with any ridiculousness. She is leading some sort of cooking demonstration with the gentle firmness of a benevolent ruler, but her smile is kind and her affection is easy. When she places a hand on Emma’s shoulder for the first time in greeting, Emma can’t bring herself to shrug it off.

 

Marian and Peter, her students, are eyeing a recipe on the counter and they both give her a polite wave and bright smiles when they see her. They don’t press though, don’t ask her any questions, there are no awkward “Getting to Know You” games and she’s kind of thankful for that.

 

A chalkboard on the wall has a menu for the week in elaborate flowing script, complete with several absurd cartoon drawings. Attached to the pantry is a carefully printed inventory list on a clipboard that hangs on a nail, used items crossed off as they are taken. The fridge boasts another series of magnets, these making up the rotating cooking schedule Liam mentioned, little pictures of colanders and vegetables denoting tasks.

 

It’s sickeningly perfect and organized. A well run ship, and Emma wonders if that what’s he meant by “crew”.

 

From there they go to the game room where a young man named Victor and Killian’s roommate Will are yelling at the screen and each other, the apparent source of a good portion of the noise from earlier. Their feet are propped on a scuffed coffee table, Killian casually sliding a coaster beneath a pop can  and shoving the offending feet off with the exasperated expression of a boy who has done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.

 

(The only thing preventing all this from being a television commercial, Emma realizes wildly, is the distinct lack of product placement, not a Sunny D or pizza roll in sight. )

 

It makes her chest ache.

 

Killian is frowning at her when they are heading to the main “recreation room” and he stops her with a hand to her arm in the hallway. She avoids his eyes as he looks down at her face, choosing instead to focus on his ridiculous band shirt “Samurai Pizza Coalition”, and steadying her breath. 

 

No matter how many times she does this it doesn’t get any easier and she doesn’t want this strange annoying boy who quotes things in the middle of sentences and bows too much to see her panic.

 

“Right, come on then,” she watches as his mouth presses into a grim line and before she can protest he is taking her by the hand and practically dragging her through the house, up the stairs, back to her new room.

 

“What are you doing?” There is panic in her eyes and her voice as he leads her over to the bed. He drops her arm like it’s burned him.

 

“I just thought you could use some time to settle in, get your bearings, I can show you around anytime.” He steps back, out of her space, hands up to show he meant no harm, and Emma feels slightly bad for the unspoken accusation. But not _too_ bad, you can never be too careful.

 

“I’ll bring you a tray of supper up when it’s ready. You don’t have to come down. Everyone understands,” he rubs the back of his head. “One place I was at I didn’t come out of my room for 4 days straight. Even then they had to practically drag me to school.”

 

“Please, save it.” Emma rolls her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest. “Don’t try to _bond_ with me by sharing your harrowing “experiences”, you don’t know, you _have_ a family, I met him remember?”

 

His eyes are hard when he looks at her, and Emma wants to take a step back from the expression on his face, but she is nothing if not brave and she stands her ground, defiant.

 

“You make a lot of assumptions about things you know nothing about lass,” he looks away from her, to Tink’s side. “She’ll be home soon, but I’ll keep her out of your hair so you can have some time to yourself.”

 

“Don’t bother,” Emma scoffs and falls onto the bed, arms still across her chest. She can’t bear to look at him, shame filling her belly, wondering if he is telling the truth, wondering if she is wrong. She hadn’t heard a lie in his voice but there was a lot going on, a lot to process.

 

“I’ll keep her occupied,” he murmurs shutting the door behind him.

 

Emma pretends to be asleep when the girl comes into the room hours later.

 

_____

 

Emma is left alone the next day. The others are off to school, but she is not yet registered, her final paperwork being faxed in from her last location and she won’t start for another few days. It’s eerily quiet where once there was so much noise. She pretended to sleep as the other girl got ready, feeling curious eyes on her back as she faced the wall and strained her ears. She could make out the banging of doors, good natured arguments over the bathroom, a familiar accented voice asking about the whereabouts of his satchel, the scrape of dishes from below, and then the house is quiet.

 

She pads out on socked feet, pulling her hoodie down over her pajamas, peering into the open doors of each room but not going inside them, it seems like a violation. The one Killian identified as his is much like her own: one side obsessively, compulsively, neat and minimalist. The other is a chaotic sprawl of dirty clothes, papers, and magazines. There is a guitar in a stand in the corner and a perfectly arranged stack of books on the desk (big to small, lined up perfectly at the edges). Emma remembers a coaster slid under an aluminum can and she has a pretty good idea of whose side is whose.

 

The kitchen is empty, a plate of large, homemade blueberry muffins on the corner, and she takes two, slipping one into the pocket of her sweater to hide for later, taking a bite of the other as she makes her way out to explore the rest of the house.

 

Her hands trail floral wallpaper, dark heavy furniture. The recreation room they never got to during their tour is easily the biggest room in the house, a large sectional sofa and several comfy armchairs, a huge communal TV, bigger than the one in the game room. The back wall is full of books of all kinds, and there are several desks lining one of the walls on the side. It’s warm and friendly, surfaces covered in knickknacks and forgotten items, and she leaves the room as quickly as she can, uncomfortable.

 

There is a dining room with a huge farm table, and a laundry area with two sets of washer and dryers, two shelves with slide out laundry baskets, labels here as well, and she finds her basket at the bottom, seafoam green and empty. 

 

She opens a door at the end of the hall and freezes when finds Liam there, bent over his desk, pen in hand. He smiles when he looks up, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Ah Emma, good morning,” he stands and Emma backs away.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-” she folds her arms across her chest, letting the sentence fall away, hugging herself and he smiles patiently at her.

 

“And you didn’t,” he stretches and tosses his pen onto the desk. “I needed a break anyway. Only part of this job I dislike is all the bloody paperwork. My wife has a special talent for avoiding it and leaving it all to me.”

 

Emma feels sorry for that too, positive the paperwork is because of her, but he comes to the door, and motions for her to follow him.

 

“Here, let’s show you the garden.”

 

_____

 

The garden takes up most of the back yard, several well sectioned off patches of land, each full of different things. Some of the squares hold just flowers, others purely vegetables. One is full of dying plants, another flourishing to the point of taking over the plot next door. It’s chaotic and messy and disorganized unlike the various overwhelming systems inside the house and Emma likes it instantly.  Liam smiles down at her as if reading her mind.

 

“It’s not a part of the work schedule and we certainly don’t rely on it as a source of regular sustenance, it is purely just for those who enjoy the art,” he smiles self-deprecatingly. “Good thing that, because I am absolutely hopeless at it.” He points to the corner. “That one doesn’t belong to anyone if you want it; there are tools in the shed you can use any time and gardening books in the library and we have lots of different seeds in there too but if there is something you fancy we don’t have in stock we can go to the hardware store. There’s a seed catalog around here somewhere.”

 

Emma shrugs noncommittally but she finds her gaze lingering on the tiny section he said she could have all to herself as they go back into the house.

 

_____

 

 

Elsa makes lunch for the three of them, a comfortable silence punctuated by the scrape of her knife on bread and the occasional tidbit of information about the inner workings of the house, about things she can expect and brief glimpses into the personalities of the other occupants.

 

They don’t ask her questions, and for that Emma is grateful. They don’t ask her to acknowledge she heard them, they just smile at her pleasantly, sliding a sandwich and grapes into her space. They tell her about adding a few foods she likes to the grocery list on the fridge and meals she prefers to the menu section of the binder on the counter.  All safe topics.

 

Liam and Elsa have an easy affection, moving seamlessly around the kitchen, his hand at her waist, a kiss pressed chastely to her temple, a smile over her shoulder and Emma can’t remember if her last guardians even liked each other.

 

She eats her grapes and looks at her plate, trying not to think too much about how nice this is, how nice _everything_ is. It's temporary after all.

 

“If you need me to add any extracurriculars or clubs to your schedule be sure to let me know okay?” Elsa is saying and Emma has to struggle not to snort at the implication that _she,_ transitory and talentless Emma, could ever be part of any sort of club or group. She just shakes her head, continuing to stare at her food as she eats.

 

“Well that's not surprising, most of our other kids didn't either, but the school has lots of stuff you might find interesting-” Elsa laughs to herself “-way more stuff than when I was in school. Tink has her robots and Marian takes Archery. Will has Magic Society-” Emma looks up at that one, eyebrow raised. Elsa grins at her “-let’s just say he's very good with sleight of hand and we needed a way to… channel that.”

 

Liam snorts over his own sandwich, shoving the last bit into his mouth possibly in an attempt to keep silent.

 

“There's a few lists in the rec room you can take a look at, and you can see what everyone else does on the schedule.” Elsa offers. “But in your own time, let's work on Emma first, okay?”

 

She smiles at her reassuringly but Emma can't bring herself to smile back, taking a page out of Liam’s book and shoving a grape in her mouth instead.

 

_____

 

 

She can hear them coming from half a block away through the open window of her room and Emma startles, grabbing her pack and racing down the stairs. She makes it out the back door just in time, it slamming closed as the front door opens and the ruckus moves inside.

 

She hears one of the boys, Will judging by the accent she recognizes from yesterday, yelling something about a rematch, and another girl shrieking for Victor to stop whatever it is he’s doing.

 

It's not that she's scared. She's not. They are just loud and too much and there are _so many_ and she knows, from memorizing the schedule in the hall, that some of them will be gone to their various activities by six. She just has to hold out till then.

 

She slips into the shed, softly closing the door behind her.

 

It's messy, smelling of dirt and dust, but it's quiet and isolated and even quite pleasant with the sunlight filtering in through the window and the chaos of the gardening equipment here and there. It’s so different from the rest of the very organized house, just like the garden behind, all that stuff filling the space but not overwhelming it. She slides behind a shovel and a rake to a small pile of plywood in the corner and sits,  pulling her book out of her backpack and settling in to read.

 

It's a good hour before her peace is disturbed, the shuffle of shoes on the grass outside making her freeze, heart seizing in her chest.

 

There is no other noise for a moment, and then the creak of the door.

 

Emma pulls back further into her corner, heart moving again, pounding against her ribcage as a dark head of familiar hair ducks inside.

 

Killian.

 

He doesn't appear to sense her presence, leaning over to peer out the window at the house before ducking back, reaching down behind a bag of what she thinks is potting soil.

 

She watches him for a moment, narrowing her eyes as he rustles around behind the bag, drawing out a small tin box.

 

Emma holds her breath, trying not to move as he places the box on the workbench against the wall. Emma can't bear it anymore.

 

“What are you doing?” She says loudly, taking in some much needed air and trying not to feel too satisfied when he jumps, whirling around. The tin clatters to the floor forgotten.

 

“Bloody hell, what the fuck,” he curses and looks at her wild eyed in the corner. “Emma?”

 

Emma says nothing, just looks at him trying to keep the smile off her face.

 

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, what are you doing out here?” His voice is breathless but not angry, and he reaches down to gather the spilled contents of his little box.

 

“I could ask you the same question,” Emma closes her book, shoving it into her satchel. “Skulking around keeping secrets.” It's said half jokingly but she tries to peer around him at the tin.

 

“If anyone is _skulking_ _about_ that’d be you, love.” He says rising and laying it back on the table. “Hiding in shadows trying to kill people via cardiac arrest.”

 

“I was here first,” Emma points out. “You snuck up on _me_.”

 

“Aye that you were, but it's hardly sneaking if I didn't know you were here,” he points out and reaches into the tin. “So, _Emma_ , since you’re here, how good _are_ _you_ at keeping secrets?”

 

Emma feels the familiar unease rise up in her chest and looks at the box, a thousand ideas as to its contents running through her head, each more terrible and troubling than the last. Just like before, he reads her expression easily and shakes his head.

 

“Relax it's not as bad as all that,” he rolls his eyes and boredly tilts the box forward for her to see the contents. “See? Just your run of the mill teenage rebellion here, Swan.”

 

Emma isn't sure if she's relieved or not by the contents: a small brown glass flask, a shining silver Zippo with an engraving she can't make out, and a slightly dented, but still serviceable pack of Djarum Blacks.

 

He takes the pack out, opening it and offering them to her with a tilt of the box. She shakes her head and watches, fascinated, as he shrugs, using his lips to take one from it, cupping a hand around the black stick as he lights and inhales. He blows out a steady stream of sweet smelling smoke and leans back against the table, elbows on the wood.

 

“So what dark and devious deeds were you up to out here Swan?” He arches an eyebrow at her, licking his lips to taste the sweetness from the cloves.

 

Emma holds up her book.

 

“Reading a book,” she deadpans and stands up.

 

“So rebellious,” he teases and takes another drag.

 

“I'll have you know this is a banned book,” she ducks behind the shovel and comes out of her corner to stand next to him, the smell of the burning spice and tobacco cloyingly sweet but enticing nonetheless. Her skin itches to do _something_ , the urge to take it back and ask him for one to sate her curiosity overwhelming.

 

He laughs, and before she can ask, holds out the cigarette, his fingers curled around it gracefully. He motions for her to take it with a nod of his head.

 

It's sugar on her lips and a harsh burn in her throat but she doesn't hate it. She takes another drag, handing it back to him and leans her hip against the space next to his.

 

He exhales a long breath of smoke, and eyes her curiously.

 

“So you made it a day,” he says after a beat, wordlessly handing it back to her. “Going to try for another?”

 

Emma shrugs and takes another pull, this one more confident, darting a tongue out after it to taste. Killian’s eyes follow the movement but he doesn't say anything just takes it back putting it to his lips.

 

It's a few more minutes of comfortable silence, passing it back and forth, her tongue feeling slightly numb and her head spinning from that first cigarette buzz.

 

“What would your brother do if he found out you were smoking out here?” She asks.

 

“Same thing he always does.” Killian flicks his ash down onto the floor, kicking it with his toe between the beams. “Soak them in water and leave them on my desk, assign me bathroom duty for a fortnight and make me watch all the anti-smoking scare videos on YouTube, all in a row.” Killian shrugs.

 

“Did you just say fortnight?” Emma asks disbelievingly. His eyes twinkle, lips curving into a smile.

 

“Aye.”

 

“You’re ridiculous,” she takes the clove back from him again.

 

Killian just smiles to himself and finishes the cigarette off, putting it out with a stream of water from a small plastic bottle on a nearby shelf and tucking the butt into a second empty pack in the tin.

 

“Almost dinner time,” he offers casually after a moment.

 

Emma says nothing, looking down at her feet.

 

“Shall I make your excuses or will you do me the honor of accompanying me inside?” He is smirking at her again as he puts his tin away in its hiding spot behind the potting soil.

 

“Now you’re just doing it on purpose,” she accuses trying not to smile. Despite herself she hitches up her bag and nods at him.

 

“Am I, Swan?” He opens the shed door, holding it so she can step out into the yard. “Maybe I'm just particularly eloquent.”

 

Before she can respond his mouth is by her ear, and her pulse rushes at the change in his proximity. He is warm at her elbow, smelling of clove cigarettes and male deodorant.

 

“Better splash yourself with some perfume or something love, wouldn't want them to know you've been a naughty girl.” He singsongs the last bit and gives her a wink as he jogs away into the house.

 

It's quieter now, some of the others out for the evening at their various activities, but it's still a bit nerve wracking as she makes her way back up to her room, both because she fears running into Elsa or Liam before she can slather on some lotion and give her hands a wash, and also because the prospect of running into _anyone_ fills her with dread.

 

Her fears are realized as she enters her room, a tiny blonde girl working away at her desk, small parts and wires littering the surface.

 

The girl, Tink, looks up when Emma comes in, smiling brightly but staying where she is.

 

“You must be Emma,” the girl smiles wider at her wary nod, “I’m Tink.”

 

Emma nods again and mumbles a nice to meet you, crossing over to her bed.

 

Tink, like Killian seems understanding and doesn't push further, giving a small encouraging smile before wordlessly turning back to her work.

 

Emma takes out her lotion from her pack, a small bottle she lifted from the mall near her last home, and slathers it on eying the girl and hoping she doesn't  notice. 

 

Tink is oblivious, working diligently, her tongue pressed into the corner of her mouth as she twists a wire around a post. Emma wants to ask her what she's working on, even opens her mouth a few times to do just that, but the words don't come and the girl doesn't notice.

 

Emma is grateful for the knock on their door  a moment later, the silence of sharing a room with a stranger growing uncomfortable and awkwardly oppressive with each moment that passes.

 

Killian ducks his head in but doesn't cross the threshold, probably a rule, and grins at the lotion in her hands before he turns to Tink.

 

“Elsa said dinner in five for those who wish to partake.” Killian directs the last bit to her, a curious eyebrow and a slight upward inflection turning it into a question.

 

His smile is so genuine and bright when she nods a moment later she has to fight with everything she has not to smile in return.

 

Dinner is roasted chicken, vegetables and potatoes and it's apparently Elsa and Victor’s night to cook. Victor’s slightly lumpy mashed potatoes and too thick gravy are balanced out by Elsa’s expertly roasted chicken and perfectly seasoned vegetables. It’s all delicious.

 

Emma eats too fast and too much but no one says anything if they notice. And even though Killian sees her slip a dinner roll into the pocket of her sweater from his seat next to her, he doesn't mention it or let on that he saw, he just wordlessly passes her his own under the table.

 

Dessert is leftover cupcakes from the night before, the frosting thick and ridiculously sweet, the cake slightly dry but still good, and Emma yearns for another, wondering if she can keep it hidden without getting frosting all over everything. She decides not to risk it, resolving to slip down later when the house is asleep.

 

It turns out to be a moot point, a yellow frosted confection waiting for her on the headboard slash bookshelf when she enters her room, no indication that anyone was even there except for the lingering scent of recently applied cologne.

 

_____

 


End file.
